Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  His voice was petulant, but that was merely pretense. The dark eyes were still twinkling, and a half smile played on those sensual lips. He had an almost overwhelming presence, this great lion of a man who combined the enthusiasm of a merry child with an aura of potent sexual magnetism that was galvanizing in its effect. Women were obviously as indispensable to him as hearty meals and huge tankards of strong red wine.

  “What about The Count of Monte Cristo?” he asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Surely you’ve read that.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “If you weren’t so pretty, I’d wring your neck,” he growled. “You’re doing this deliberately. You know very well who I am. Everyone knows. Ask anyone on this boat. They’ll tell you. See those schoolgirls over there? See them tittering and pointing? They know who I am. They know my reputation with women. They’re hoping I’ll scoop them up and carry them off to my cabin.”

  I smiled in spite of myself, melting before his jovial charm. I knew who he was now, of course, but I was enjoying the game too much to give it up just yet.

  “You’re not Spanish,” he said accusingly. “Your accent is English.”

  “You think not?”

  “Gorgeous, yes. Fascinating, undeniably. Seductive, no question about it. Spanish, not a chance. The papers say you claim to be Lord Byron’s illegitimate daughter. I doubt that, too.”

  “You’ll admit it makes good reading.”

  He rumbled with laughter, drawing even more attention to us. I should have been uncomfortable, but I wasn’t. I found Monsieur Alexandre Dumas both amusing and endearing.

  “I think you’re as big a fraud as I am, Elena.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, Monsieur Dumas.”

  “Ah-ha! So you do know who I am.”

  “I’ve read about you. Your reputation is almost as bad as mine.”

  “Worse, chérie,” he assured me. “We’ve wasted enough time in idle chitchat. The boat won’t dock for at least half an hour. That’ll give us ample time for a rousing bounce in bed.”

  “You are outrageous.”

  “I’ve the stamina of a ram. You’re going to love it. They all do. Women are constantly after me; they can’t leave me alone. They’re always underfoot. I literally have to kick them out of the house in order to get any work done.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Look at them staring at us. They’re talking about us already, ma petite. By tomorrow afternoon it’ll be all over Paris that Dumas went to London to see his English publishers and came back with Elena Lopez. They’ll say we had a raging, lusty affair and spent the whole time on this boat making noisy love in my cabin. Come now, let us give truth to the rumors already starting.”

  “I’ll pass, Monsieur Dumas.”

  “You’re turning me down?”

  When I nodded, his expression changed to mock dismay.

  “I refuse to believe it! You’re not impressed with my accomplishments? You don’t find me wonderfully handsome and irresistibly virile? You’re not eager to find out if all that talk about my prowess is true? Incredible!”

  I smiled again. It was impossible to take offense. He took nothing seriously, himself least of all. I liked him very much.

  “You’re making a mistake. I really am phenomenal in bed, lusty as can be. I always leave them begging for more,” he added, “I could provide references.”

  “You’d merely be wasting your time.”

  “I must be losing my touch,” he complained. “You’ve ruined my day, you know. I’m totally crushed.”

  “I imagine you’ll get over it.”

  He sighed and shook his head, and then he smiled, eyes atwinkle.

  “I suppose I’ll have to settle for friendship, for the time being. How long are you going to be in Paris?”

  “I’ll be there for three weeks. Then I begin a European tour.”

  “Three weeks will give us plenty of time to become amis. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, I promise. Someone needs to launch you in Paris, and it might as well be me. If you’re not going to come down to my cabin with me for a touch of l’amour, I suppose I’d better go back down alone and dash off the rest of that chapter. My publishers are screaming. They never give me a moment’s peace. A bientôt, Elena.”

  “Au revoir,” I said.

  He took my hand and turned it palm upward, lifting it to his lips. After kissing my hand he gave me a merry nod and strolled off toward the stairs. The schoolgirls in white organdy tittered like a trio of nervous geese. Dumas bowed to them, growling hungrily. Their chaperone let out a horrified exclamation and herded them away. The novelist laughed boisterously, moving on down the stairs.

  For a while, I strolled along the deck thinking about the encounter, and then I went down to our cabin. Millie was checking our hand luggage, counting to make sure we had it all. Our trunks had been sent on ahead to the hotel in Paris, but we still had a bewildering array of bags and hatboxes. Satisfied that nothing had been left behind, Millie sighed wearily and patted her golden ringlets; her deep blue eyes had a long-suffering look. She wore an extremely fetching pink cotton frock that accentuated her voluptuous bosom and slender waist. After almost a year as dresser-companion to the notorious Elena Lopez, Millie wasn’t nearly as concerned with respectability as she had been in the beginning.

  “They’re all here,” she informed me. “I must say I’m surprised. I felt sure that man would lose one of them. Don’t know why he had to see us off, anyway.”

  The man was David Rogers. He had accompanied us from London to Dover and had brought all our bags on board, striving all the while to get Millie off alone for a private talk. Millie treated him with cool disdain, glaring at him when he stumbled and dropped the bags, answering him tersely when he spoke to her. The strapping, robust David who ordinarily looked as though he had just come from a rousing game of soccer had worn a pathetic, forlorn expression as he stood on the dock watching the boat pull away. Millie hadn’t even bothered to wave from the railing.

  “Thank goodness we’ve seen the last of him,” she said. “He was beginning to get completely out of hand, so bossy and possessive, and all that talk about marriage! Thought he owned me, he did. A girl wants to have a bit of fun before she settles down.”

  She spoke with considerable emphasis, and I smiled to myself. Millie had certainly been having her share of fun during the past months, leading the enamored David on a merry chase and flirting outrageously with every lad who struck her fancy, conduct calculated to send David into bursts of jealous rage. Loving every minute of her new life, she thrived on the excitement surrounding Elena Lopez. The tour had been tedious and uncomfortable, an endless procession of dusty railway carriages, shabby hotel rooms, and drafty provincial theaters, but she had taken it all in stride. She might grumble and complain and act very put-upon, but her spirit never faltered.

  “Poor David,” I said. “I thought you were fond of him.”

  “Oh, he had his good points. He was rough and robust and ever so masterful, but he grew much too serious. Sulked a lot, too. You needn’t waste any sympathy on him, Elena.”

  “You were rather hard on him.”

  “With good reason,” she retorted. “It was all right for him to make eyes at those flighty little actresses and take them out on the sly, but when I happened to strike up a conversation with one of the students at Oxford he had a fit. Oxford was grand, wasn’t it?”

  “Grand,” I agreed.

  “All those glorious old buildings,” she mused.

  “All those rowdy young men,” I added.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she protested. “They wanted to show me all the pubs and give me a good time. Noisy lot, those boys, drinking and brawling and carrying on half the night, but I had the time of my life.”

  The boat began to slow down. We could hear gears grinding below.

  “By the way,” Millie said, “there’s another famous person on b
oard. One of the stewards was talking about him. Alexan-dray Du-mah; the French writer.”

  “I know. I met him.”

  “You did?”

  “We had quite a long conversation.”

  “Humph,” she sniffed. “I’d be careful, luv. I read all about him in one of the tabloids. He’s supposed to be a regular devil with the ladies, positively insatiable. I read that book of his, too. The Three Musketeers. Can’t say I cared for it, though. Too much swordplay.”

  As the boat lurched to a halt, there was a grating noise of wood scraping against wood. A minute later, a sharp knock sounded on the cabin door, and I opened it to admit a strapping blond steward in a gleaming white uniform. His brown eyes were decidedly roguish, and he gave Millie a conspiratorial grin. I suspected that they had entertained each other while I was up on deck. He scooped up all the bags, and we followed him out of the cabin and up the stairs.

  I expected to find a swarm of reporters waiting at the bottom of the gangplank as we disembarked. There were none in sight. Anthony was nowhere in sight, either, but there was a large crowd and considerable bustle, with people hurrying toward the railway station where a train waited to transport us to Paris. Perhaps he was waiting at the station, I told myself, but somehow I doubted it. The feeling of unease rose anew, and I fought to quell it. If he hadn’t come to Calais to meet us, there was probably a very good reason.

  “No Anthony, I see,” Millie remarked.

  “He—he may be at the station. You go on to the train, Millie, and find our compartment. I’ll join you there.”

  Millie and her handsome steward disappeared in the crowd. I lingered for a few moments, hoping against hope that Anthony would show up, but he didn’t. He wasn’t at the station, nor was he anywhere on the train as far as I could see. Finally, I joined Millie in our private compartment. The bags had all been stowed away and the steward’s grin was even wider than before. Millie was rubbing her backside and looking very pleased with herself. The steward left, closing the door behind him.

  “Cheeky lad,” Millie remarked, “but nice, just the same.”

  “Did you tip him?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” she replied.

  I settled back against the faded green velvet seat. At one time, the compartment had been luxurious, but now it had the frayed, worn look prevalent on heavily travelled trains. The gold fringe that hung from the green velvet curtains was tarnished, and there was the familiar smell of dust, stale smoke, and sweat. Millie and I had spent a great deal of time in such compartments, traveling from one town to the next. In three weeks it would begin all over again, and I feared that European accommodations would be no more comfortable than the English had been.

  As the train pulled out of the station, I realized that I was very depressed. I missed Anthony more than I cared to admit, and I was deeply disappointed that he hadn’t come to meet us. I was mystified, too, by the absence of reporters. Surely he would have informed them of my arrival. Anthony never missed a chance for publicity. That small, gnawing worry persisted. Something was wrong. I could feel it. Why had he been so adamant about coming on to Paris ahead of us? It really hadn’t been necessary. I kept remembering the way he had acted when he said goodbye. His manner had been jaunty enough, but I had sensed a certain strain. He had kissed me lightly, yet his eyes had been almost sad. Or had I imagined it?

  The train moved across the French countryside, passing small, desolate-looking villages and rows of slender poplar trees with vivid red poppies growing beneath them. I didn’t love Anthony, but he was very important to me, just how important I was beginning to realize for the first time. He had become an integral part of my life, exasperating one moment, endearing the next. I couldn’t conceive of his not being there. As I listened to the monotonous rumble of wheels, I tried to curb the apprehension inside me. Anthony would probably meet us at the station in Paris with a whole mob of reporters and a perfectly valid excuse for not being in Calais.

  The train ground to a stop at a small way-station, started again a few moments later, and shortly thereafter the door to our compartment flew open as a giant of a man stumbled inside, face and shoulders hidden by the large basket he carried. Millie gave a startled cry and jumped to her feet. Alexandre Dumas plopped the basket down, straightened his maroon lapels, patted the turquoise neckcloth, and beamed at us. The beam disappeared as Millie kicked his shin. At that moment, the train lurched, and both of them tumbled onto the seat opposite mine. Millie seized a bag and began to pound him on the head with it. Dumas roared in protest, folding his arms over his head for protection.

  “Help!” he cried. “Get her off me!”

  “Rogue! Rapist! Thief!”

  “Millie! It’s all right. I know him.”

  Millie ceased her barrage of blows and gave Dumas a nasty look. He lowered his arms and gave her a look that was highly appreciative, taking in every detail and settling upon the splendidly full bosom encased in thin pink cotton. Millie moved away from him and brushed at her skirts, still bristling but definitely intrigued. Dumas smiled at her and growled the hungry growl he had used on the schoolgirls. She looked as though she’d like to bang him over the head again.

  “Mon Dieu, a regular little wildcat,” Dumas remarked, addressing me. “Who is she?”

  “Millie is my companion.”

  “Thought she might be your bodyguard. An appetizing minx. I don’t know when I’ve seen a tastier morsel.”

  “What did he say?” Millie snapped.

  “He just paid you a compliment. Millie doesn’t speak French, Monsieur Dumas.”

  “No? Then we’ll speak her language,” he replied, changing to English. “I’ve just finished my chapter. It’s a marvelous work, charged with life. I whipped off twelve pages on the boat, and did ten more after boarding the train. So, I thought a celebration was in order. I popped off the train when it stopped back there and bought a few things to snack on.”

  Reaching into the basket, he pulled out a long loaf of bread, which he deposited in Millie’s lap. She put it on the seat, gingerly, giving him another nasty look. A large hunk of cheese, a bunch of grapes, half a dozen apples, and three bottles of wine followed the bread. Dumas finally pulled out a whole roasted chicken and set the basket on the floor.

  “Drumstick, anyone?” he inquired.

  “I’m not hungry,” I told him.

  “Neither am I!” Millie said testily.

  “No? I hope you won’t mind if I indulge myself, Mademoiselles. I’m famished. I usually am. I love good food, good wine. There is nothing quite so satisfying, unless it’s a saucy woman.”

  He tore the chicken apart and began to devour it, tossing the bones into the basket. The chicken quickly vanished. He reached for the loaf of bread, tore it in half, and uncorked one of the bottles of wine. I watched with amusement, Millie with disgust. Dumas ate with hearty relish, savoring each bite, totally unperturbed by his audience.

  “So you’re Alexandre Dumas?” Millie accused.

  “In the flesh, mon pigeon.”

  “There’s an awful lot of it,” she observed.

  “Solid muscle, not an ounce of fat on me. I’ve the strength of Samson. I take after my father, the General. He was one of Napoleon’s men; once lifted a horse right off the ground with his bare hands. Look at this biceps. Do you want to feel it?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “A charming lass, this one,” Dumas told me. “I’ve always had a weakness for sassy blondes. Would you like to take a stroll to the next carriage and leave us alone for a while?”

  “She certainly wouldn’t!” Millie exclaimed.

  Dumas bellowed with laughter and uncorked another bottle of wine. My depression had fled. I was enjoying myself, enchanted by this gigantic clown who was one of the most famous men in France. He finished the second bottle of wine, polished off the bread and cheese, and began to munch on an apple, keeping up an amusing patter all the while. With appealing good humor, he told us about his successes
as playwright, novelist, athlete, man of action, and lover of women. He also mentioned the fabulous Chateau de Monte-Cristo the architect Durand was building for him in the forest of Saint-Germain.

  All three of us were surprised when the train pulled into the station at Paris, for Dumas’s monologue had made the time fly. He asked where we were staying, as he tossed empty bottles and apple cores into the basket and got to his feet, looming over us like a colossus in the confined space of the compartment. Millie eyed him slyly, clearly fascinated but maintaining her aloof pose. Dumas threw open the door and scooped up the basket.

  “I’d better get back to my own compartment before some porter steals my bags and runs off with my manuscript. George is having un petit salon at her apartment Thursday. She usually has a number of amusing people there. I’ll take you. It will be a perfect place to introduce you to our Parisian society.”

  “That would be lovely,” I replied.

  “I imagine I’ll be seeing you again, mon petit pigeon,” he told Millie.

  Millie didn’t deign to reply, so Dumas shambled on toward his own compartment. A porter arrived to help us with the bags, and as we followed him down the aisle I braced myself for the encounter with the reporters that Anthony would surely have waiting on the platform. Millie chattered about Dumas, affecting an outrage that was far from convincing. The porter moved through the door and down the narrow metal steps. The platform was aswarm with people, a shifting kaleidoscope of movement and color, the din incredible as trains pulled in and out. But there were no reporters, and Anthony was not waiting for me.

  “He—he probably forgot we were arriving today,” Millie said hurriedly, concerned at my expression. “You know how forgetful he is, Elena. He’s probably at the hotel, dining in splendor and—and contemplating some new money-making scheme.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “There’s probably a whole fleet of chaps from the papers ready to meet the boat from England tomorrow afternoon. If I know him, he’ll give us what for for arriving early.”